


I remember when I lost my mind

by Failing_Physics



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst and Feels, Emotions, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Monster of the Week, idiots to lovers, im playing the how much pain can i put the characters through game, so strap in, though tbh geralt wouldnt know what feelings were if they slapped him in the face, to be fair jaskier isnt better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22911889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Failing_Physics/pseuds/Failing_Physics
Summary: It's months after Geralt left Jaskier, but the pain and hurt has only grown since - and then suddenly Jaskier finds himself in desperate need of a rescue
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 120





	1. In the eyes of madness

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think I'll make this fic too long, but I plan to cram in all the feels possible

Jaskier stomped down the forest track, glaring at every tree he passed as if it was personally responsible for his predicament. Every minute of every day, that last conversation he’d held with Geralt spun round his head, as if some malicious god was reminding him of exactly what - who - he had lost. Even, now, even three months after Geralt had left, that black and vicious hole he had left was still slowly poisoning his thoughts, bleeding into his heart. And h e’d tried, he’d tried  _ so damn hard  _ to forget about Geralt, but sill, every pound of Jaskier’s heart drove that invisible dagger further. 

Jaskier thought his heart might be breaking. 

But if it was indeed heartbreak, it was the only gift Geralt had left him and so Jaskier embraced the invisible dagger, along with the tangled mess of feelings that the bard refused to dig through. So Jaskier had plastered on a cheery smile and sung his ballads and wrote his poems because if he pretended hard enough not to care, then maybe it would come true. 

But here in the woods the careful wall of ice and steel Jaskier had built up crumbled. If he tried hard enough, he could probably come up with a hundred different metaphors for what he was feeling but what was the point when one word summed it up perfectly: misery. 

Jaskier shook his head and sighed, casting his gaze up to the equally miserable rain clouds overhead. _Just my luck_ . Well, if nothing else, at least the weather allowed him to brood in peace as no one else would be foolish enough to venture along the forest path with the clouds so swollen. And Jaskier _would not_ think about how him and Geralt might have sheltered under a tree and Jaskier would have proclaimed the rain was a bad omen, and he would _not_ think about how Geralt would grunt and brush him off, but a corner of his mouth would lift slightly and Jaskier would definitely _not_ think about how that would make him grin until his face hurt -

Jaskier clamped down on that train of thought so hard he choked. No, those were all _excellent_ examples of what he would _not_ be thinking about as he trudged down the beaten track towards Nevris. 

It would be a fair comment to say that Jaskier was more than a little hung up over Geralt.

Even if a savage, wicked part of Jaskier hated Geralt more than words could describe, mostly he was just miserable. He’d get over it. Probably. Jaskier threw himself onto the grass, pulling his lute from his back before pausing as his fingers ran over the strings. It seemed sacrilege to play when his heart wasn’t in it and he sighed again, placing it down beside him. Jaskier was so busy wallowing in self pity that he didn’t notice the forest go silent until the air turned hollow, pressing at his ears. _Uh oh_. Jaskier swallowed painfully, mouth suddenly dry as the blood roared in his head, blocking out all other sounds. 

Then he _saw_ _it_.

Tall, grey, and skeletal, the monster slipped out of the trees like mist, noiseless and terrifying - and it occurred to Jaskier that maybe there was another reason the path was abandoned so close to dusk. Jaskier didn’t remember getting to his feet but suddenly there he was, backing away and clutching his lute like a lifeline. The creature moved towards him with predatory intent and Jaskier’s gaze roved over it with increasing desperation. 

Grey skin draped over elongated limbs, bones that jutted out sharply, and the mouthful of teeth - Jaskier though he might have screamed. 

And - _oh gods_ \- those _eyes_ \- 

The depthless gaze met Jaskier and he froze, breath still in his lungs, the blood frozen in his veins. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breath, couldn’t think, the breeze on his face dulling to a vague sensation and the lute slipping from numb fingers, forgotten. Those eyes… 

Black and deep and bottomless, the space between the stars, the darkness of a moonless night, of a cave that had never seen the sun. And Jaskier _couldn’t look away._ Dimly, he was aware of the creature stooping down to touch his cheek, the gaze holding him petrified. His eyes flickered for a second, the darkness beckoning, drawing him in. Through some part of him was screaming and begging and roaring at him to run, even breathing had become a monumental effort.

The monster loomed over Jaskier.

He was so tired. 

_______________

“AHHHHHHH!” 

The scream shattered the silence and Geralt’s sword was in his hand in a flash. He settled down the fishing net, careful not to let the metal links make a noise, and turned in a slow circle, gaze sweeping over the forest. Silence. The Witcher couldn’t tell if that was good or bad but as the air hollowed out against his ears, he knew. Bad - very bad. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he snarled, drawing his second sword and advancing towards the scream, letting that lethal calm drift over him. 

An Imera. That was the only thing that could cause the air to just feel _wrong_ by being near it. He just prayed the poor fool who found it had the sense to run before the Imera caught them. Or did worse. Despite himself, Geralt felt his stomach clench at the memories of what it did to its victims, but shoved the thoughts back viciously - he was a Witcher and he had a job to do.


	2. A game with the mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt reaches Jaskier, but being the hero had never been more complicated

From the moment that the monster had touched him, Jaskier had been lost to darkness and pain. But now, suddenly, he was here, on a mountainside, and standing in front of him was a silver-haired man who could only be Geralt. But something seemed just… _off_ about the world; the colours were too harsh, the wind too loud. It was a hallucination. And probably the monster’s doing - Jaskier was just about to blow out a shaky breath, when something clicked. Oh. Oh _shit_. Unbidden, his feet moved forward onto a rocky outcrop. No, gods no, show him anything but this. 

He felt himself halt, his mouth open and those hated words came tumbling out. 

“What a day-” 

With a dry mouth, Jaskier watched his friend’s head snap around to face him, wrath twisting Geralt’s features. 

“Goddamnit Jaskier!” 

Jaskier’s heart plummeted into his stomach. He’d tried so, _so_ hard to forget that face of utter anger and disgust that Geralt sent his way.

“Why is it that whenever I find myself in a pile of shit, it’s you shoveling it?!” 

“That’s not fair.” A broken whisper. 

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!” 

The hollowness began in Jaskier’s feet and spread up to his heart, his head as he scrambled for _anything_ to respond with. 

“Right. I’ll… see you around then Geralt.” Numb to the core, Jaskier turned away, a roaring in his ears as darkness descended on the word. The poet stumbled, terrified and disorientated as the ground vanished under his feet before seconds later it slammed back up against him, making Jaskier’s knees buckle. He gasped in the sharp mountain air reflexively. _Not real, not real, not real._

“Goddamn it Jaskier!” 

Jaskier’s head snapped up as he stared at Geralt, eyes widening as the worst moment of his life played again. And again.

_And again._

______________

Geralt saw the lute first. It was face down on the dew-soaked grass, the honey coloured wood practically glowing in the dull surroundings, and his throat tightened at the coloured designs etched on the back. He had been there when those were painted. That was Jaskier’s lute.

He saw the monster second, the Imera stooped its elongated body over a stiffened figure, one wicked talon extended and lightly touching the person’s forehead. Geralt’s eyes narrowed this time, knowledge of the Imera’s weak points and strengths rushing through his mind as he tightened his grip on the swords. 

And Geralt saw Jaskier last. Eyes rolled back into his head, back stiff and arms limp, forehead brushing the claw of the monster as if it was an invisible string holding him upright. Geralt gave himself one second. One second for his mind to shift through this new information and one second to deal with the guilt that slammed into him like a wall. 

Deep inside his mind he felt something snap as he stared at the bard’s prone form. And it was all so very easy to lift the sword and dart forwards. The Imera snarled, the sound rumbling through the ground as Geralt took his first swing, a spray of blue blood misting the air and a shriek of anger as the blade found his mark. 

Jaskier shuddered, swayed and slumped to the ground as the Imera ripped away from the poet, not even pausing as it lunged. The Witcher dropped, rolling under outstretched talons and slashed again, feinting before a swift reverse strike caught the creature’s torso. Again, that earth-shattering scream rang out, making the very air tremble as another clumsy lunge sent Geralt stumbling backwards. He couldn’t let it touch him - not if he wanted to be dragged down into one of its horrific hallucinations. 

The Imera sank to its haunches and for a long second the two parties stared at each other, each willing ice into their veins. The Imera tensed. Geralt struck. Dodging claws and fangs, he whirled a nightmare of steel about the monster, blocking out the howls and stench. He hissed in pain as the claws slashed at him, but firmly shoved the agony back, gritting his teeth and diving forwards. 

His steel bit deep into its neck and the Imera wrenched itself away, movements turning jerky and eventually stilling altogether as the monster slumped to the ground. Geralt sheathed his sword, trying to even out his breathing and slow his manic heart rate. There was a slight rustling behind him and Geralt whirled, the dagger that left his fingers easy as breathing. But it only slammed into a tree, and the Witcher relaxed as he saw Jaskier’s fingers shifting the grass. 

The bard opened his eyes but made no move to stand or speak, instead staring blankly at the clouds. The familiar, gnawing feeling of guilt and panic began roaring through Geralt’s veins, slowly shredding through his self control. He didn’t remember rushing forward, but suddenly the Witcher was on his knees, leaning over Jaskier, but still those eyes remained frighteningly empty. But - he was breathing. Just. Geralt’s sigh of relief surprised even him, but he didn’t stop to consider it, instead scooping up the poet’s limp body and holding him close, as if Geralt could will some life into Jaskier’s limbs. 

He had forgotten how small the bard was. 

Misery - that’s what the Imera fed off of. Fear and misery and despair, and Geralt knew firsthand how it kept its victim trapped in their worst memories until they were no more than a dried husk. Once again, Geralt gritted his teeth at the images of what would’ve happened to Jaskier if he hadn’t got there in time. 

The Witcher shook his head violently, striding through the trees, it taking a surprisingly long time to reach his little camp. He passed into the clearing and Ciri glanced up at him from where she was determinedly blowing on a wilting campfire. Curiosity sparked in her eyes as she stared at Jaskier. Geralt raised his eyebrows.

“It’s rude to stare, Ciri.” 

She gave a huff and turned back to the fire where a small wisp of smoke struggled upwards. “You’re late.” Her tone conveyed exactly what the princess thought of being reprimanded. 

“I got a little caught up.” 

“Who’s that?”

At that Geralt paused. “A friend.” He gently placed Jaskier down on his bed roll, again listening for the poet’s steady pulse to make sure that he was alive. Jaskier’s eyes slid to the fire, still vacant. Expressionless. Geralt felt a shiver of unease creep down his spine, so used to seeing Jaskier’s face full of life that was now crushed. He wished that he’d spent longer killing the Imera. 

Ciri poked her little face around his shoulder and Geralt cursed silently. She was getting far too good at moving around silently. 

“What’s wrong with - _oh!”_

Geralt glanced over at her squeak of surprise. “Hmm?”

“That’s Dandilion! He played at Cintra before - before -” 

“So you two can be friends then.” Geralt’s words cut across the pain that bloomed in her eyes and she shot him a grateful glance.

“Will he be okay?”

“Let’s hope so.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments make my day! <3


End file.
